


Home for Christmas

by Temaris



Category: Biggles Series - W. E. Johns
Genre: Biggles of 266, Escape, M/M, Prisoner of War, World War I, Yuletide 2007
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-18
Updated: 2007-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-11 19:12:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/115957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Temaris/pseuds/Temaris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Follows on from Biggles' capture on Armistice Day in Biggles of 266.  Biggles is a PoW in a war that is no longer; he's really not good at sitting back and waiting for his freedom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home for Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [obstinatrix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/obstinatrix/gifts).



> With huge, huge thanks to Skein and Lavvyan who graciously put up with my random demands for German translations. Any mistakes, naturally, are my own. 
> 
> Written for: obstinatrix in the Yuletide 2007 Challenge

He'd hoped that they would just let him go. Armistice was declared, no more war ... but like so many things, it just wasn't quite that simple. It never was.

There was much haggling over whether or not the Boche were going to let him go; it seemed that the paper pushers wanted it done by the book, and the rest just wanted him to go away.

Germany's capitulation was a horrible embarrassment to the officers, and so, he rather thought, was his presence. More than one boot 'accidentally' clipped his foot or ankle in passing.

"Entschuldigung, my Aunt Fanny," he muttered sarcastically.

"Major Bigglesworth?"

Biggles tilted his head back to look at the new Hun who'd deigned to speak to him, a lieutenant by the insignia.

"That's me," he said and waved a magnanimous hand, "Take a pew, don't be shy."

The German smiled perfunctorily, "Kommen Sie mit mir. Bitte."

Biggles yawned. "Sorry, old man, didn't quite catch you."

"Auf die Füße mit ihm!" the officer snapped. Two guards stepped forwards reaching to hoist Biggles up and he stood a second before they made contact.

"All right, all right, keep your paws to yourselves," he said brushing himself down. "No need to get excited."

"Herr Oberst von Ahlen wishes to speak with you."

"Shall we take afternoon tea?" he asked whimsically, and got no response. "No sense of humour at all, hey?"

The lieutenant ignored him and walked away. Biggles followed and the two soldiers fell in behind. The place wasn't big, and the lieutenant knocked on a door a bare ten yards away from where they'd been holding Biggles. Biggles took the opportunity to get a good look at the building, but saw no possible escape routes before he was firmly ushered into the small office.

A man, a colonel in the German army, was writing at his desk, and looked up as they entered.

"Herr Oberst, hier der Gefangene, Major James Bigglesworth." The lieutenant clicked his heels and saluted.

The man returned the salute. "Sehr gut. Sie können gehen, Leutnant." The lieutenant left the room, making a show of closing the door, and the colonel settled back behind his desk, gesturing Biggles to take a chair.

"Major Bigglesworth. You are well, I trust?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. That is good." Colonel von Ahlen looked tired, his face thin and lined. He shuffled through several documents, frowning, then sighed and looked up at Biggles again. "I am sorry, Major. You are a very big problem for us."

"Your boys didn't have to shoot me down," Biggles said mildly. "I liked my 'plane the way it was."

"We both wish it, I think. I should -- I have my orders to send all prisoners of war back from the front lines. But on the other hand, we have the order for the end of hostilities between our nations."

"I heard. Pity we didn't hear a bit quicker, if you ask me."

The colonel smiled faintly. "Just so. And thus my dilemma -- we have a prisoner, and rules, and paperwork -- but there is little point in any of it."

"I'd be happy to take myself off your hands, if you take my meaning, sir," Biggles offered.

"But there is more paperwork, you see," the colonel gestured at the mound of papers on his desk.

"Lost? Fell in the fire? Eaten by the dog?"

"If I had a dog," von Ahlen said, an eyebrow raised. "No, I think I must send you to the proper camp, and let you make your way home when terms are quite settled between Germany and England."

"Oh, now, hang on a minute, sir, Armistice! Germany has accepted terms!"

"But not peace, Major, not yet. I am sorry. However, we are both officers. If you will give me your word of honour--"

Biggles frowned. "If I do that, can you hold off on sending me anywhere?"

"I shall ask for instructions from my superiors," he said abruptly. "Of course, it may take some time, and until I have heard from them, you must remain here. Your word, Major?"

Biggles hesitated. "Can I have some time to think about it?"

The colonel nodded once. "Lieutenant Meier will show you back to your room," he said and returned to his papers, a clear dismissal.

Biggles stood, and escorted by the lieutenant returned to the little room they'd put him in when he first arrived. He lay down on the little cot provided, and folded his hands over his chest. It was completely dark outside, not even enlivened by the glow of night time artillery; when he checked his watch it read twenty past eight. Not even ten hours yet since he was shot down, a little more than that since armistice.

The silence was uncanny. He'd grown accustomed to sleeping to the intermittent punctuation of shells. Tonight, not even the planes seemed to be moving. The occasional truck drove past his window, but apart from that and the low voices of the soldiers, nothing. Crashes, alarums, shouting, the sounds of the Front, all ceased. Here, even the wind had dropped, and the little room seemed to grow smaller with every breath.

The German soldiers were quiet, as though they expected the firing to resume that any sound might give away their position. There were no outside lights. Over on the other side of the lines they'd be in the mess by now, toasting the King, the Army Council, the Royal Air Force, the local cat, and anything else it struck their fancy to raise a glass to. Maybe wondering what happened to him when he didn't show up after all. He hmphed quietly to himself. Like the Germans, he didn't have much to celebrate.

He could do with a glass of whiskey himself. Bit of irony that. Only this morning Mahoney was going on about whiskey for brekker and the perils of same, and here he was, nary a drop to be seen.

He huffed a laugh, and sat up again. Maybe it would be over quickly. Oberst von Ahlen seemed a decent sort. He wondered if Algy had been expecting him back; wondered if the Germans had told anyone of his whereabouts yet. In ten hours? Well, maybe not. Maybe he could expect a visit from the Red Cross in a week or two, once he got nicely settled into wherever they sent him until POW terms were agreed. He'd probably just get settled and get turned straight back around and sent home. Never a moment's peace. He shook his head, smiling faintly. The smell of tobacco drifted past, and he breathed in deeply.

"Hey," he called to the guard through the door. The man ignored him, and he thumped one of his boots at the door. It opened partially a moment later and a sour faced man glowered at him.

"Was wollen Sie?" he snapped.

"Ein Zigarette, bitte?" Biggles tried, hopefully.

The soldier laughed shortly. "Wenn ich eine hätte, würde ich sie selbst rauchen."

The general tenor was clear enough even if he didn't follow precisely. "Pity. Um, wenn ist Abendessen? Dinner? Food?" He mimed putting food in his mouth and munching, and his stomach rumbled in sympathy.

The soldier shrugged. "Wenn der Versorgungszug durchkommt, der hat schon vier Tage Verspätung."

Biggles looked blank, "Sorry, I didn't quite follow--"

"Keiner kriegt was zu essen," the soldier said, and when Biggles showed no sign of following him impatiently imitated Biggles' mime, then shook his head emphatically. "Kein Essen, für niemanden." He swept his hands in a circle that seemed to encompass the camp as a whole. He eyed Biggles for a moment to see if he had any further questions, then shrugged and stepped back outside, closing the door firmly behind him.

Biggles grimaced. Did the man really mean there was nothing to eat in this benighted place at all? Seemed like. That didn't bode well, and come to think of it, even the Colonel had looked drawn. He'd thought things were pretty bad his side of the Line. Another reason to wish he was safely in the 266 mess hall. In fact, come to think of it, even if the day had gone well, he wouldn't be there, he'd probably be halfway to Blighty by now, all set to pick up his squadron of Snipes.

And awful thought struck him -- what if headquarters decided to give his Snipes to someone else? He sat up bolt upright at that.

"Oh, now, that's not on," he muttered, and set furiously to thinking. Clearly, there would be no dinner, but that meant, barring accidents, no one would come in to see him until the morning. Come morning he would be expected to give his parole and get shipped out to some infernal Prisoner of War camp. Maybe he'd get home all right, and maybe he wouldn't, but now the thought was in his head he was seized with the realisation that HQ couldn't leave a squadron twiddling its thumbs on the tarmac waiting for a downed CO when there might still be a need for them in France.

For that matter, a daring escape would save trouble all around. After all, it would have the same eventual result whether he waited and gave his parole and got repatriated, or if he dived back over the lines tonight.

He nodded, and lay back again, hands tucked comfortably under his head.

Besides. Algy would worry if he missed dinner.

* * *

"Halten Sie an!"

Slight though Biggles' German language skills were, he was entirely able to understand the shout that followed him as he scrambled under the barbed wire fence of the German regional HQ. A barb caught on his trousers and he winced and pulled until the tough material parted, leaving a long scratch down the back of his calf before letting go. If he'd been feeling at all overheated in the stiff breeze he now had a little ventilation to cool down in. He wasn't grateful.

Shots rang out and he scuttled for cover before he got any further holes in himself. A ditch on the side of the road was filthy and waterlogged, and pretty soon, so was he. He lay still, face turned away from the road, just out of the water enough to breathe. He held himself motionless as the sounds of pursuit came closer, breathing shallowly. Hopefully the sight of a dead body face down in a ditch was sufficiently normal to be ignored. Hopefully it was too dark, and his clothes too wet to distinguish the uniform. Hopefully.

Footsteps pounded up, past and -- damn. One stopped, close, by the sound of his heavy breathing.

"He, was ist mit dem da?"

Biggles took a hasty breath, just in time, as a heavy boot shoved down on his back. A light played over him, glittering in the dank water. He went limp, praying he wouldn't give himself away.

"Lass ihn, der bewegt sich nicht mehr!"

His lungs were burning by the time the man lifted his foot and he didn't dare move, instead bobbing feebly with the water until the heavy feet and shouting receded.

He turned his face fractionally and gasped for air, ignoring the foul water that trickled into his mouth. _If I were a praying man,_ he thought fervently, _I'd be on my knees_. He didn't move until his breathing had steadied, and then waited a little longer. _I wonder what'll happen when they come back and find their dead corpse gone?_

Eventually he cautiously moved, turning over on his back to stare up at the sky. It was cloudy and dark, darker than usual. Scattered lights glimmered from the German compound, but away from that it was pitchy black.

He squinted up, but the moon was just a sliver hanging in the sky, periodically obscured by the clouds carried overhead by the harsh November wind. The water felt almost warm by comparison. He crawled out of the ditch and crept slowly, carefully across the field to the cover of a nearby copse, shivering hard as the wind caught him and chilled every drop of water in his soaked clothes. Once there he tucked himself deep into the low bushes, and scrubbed at his hands and face with leaves as quietly as he could, scraping away the worst of the muck.

"The things I do for King and country," he muttered, and spat and spat again to clear his mouth. "Feh."

The hue and cry had died down some, but he waited longer, until the moon had visibly moved across the sky. It had to be midnight or later -- even if he could see his watch he was pretty certain its dunking had had a bad effect on its inner workings. At any rate, he couldn't pick out so much as a tick between the roar of German vehicles. It had been a present from Algy, too. Maybe it would be all right when it dried out.

Talking of drying out, he stripped out of his jacket and trousers and wrung them as best he could, then dragged them back on, grateful for the heavy wool. Even wet, it was some protection against the cold. He shivered, and mentally planned his route back to 266, and carefully didn't think of clean clothes, dry boots, warm food.

He half expected gun fire to start up. Even at night the Front was never this quiet. He crept forwards carefully, feeling his way. His feet began to sink deeper into the earth as it got wetter and more churned up.

"Goddammit!" The ground disappeared under his foot and he slid painfully down, almost certainly into a crater from a British shell. Something was jabbing into his back as he righted himself; the ground was soft and moved unpleasantly under his foot, and he tried not to think about what he was stepping on as he hauled himself out. Something hard, and he lifted his foot away carefully. It didn't go off.

"Thank God for duds," he muttered, and stumbled forwards. The ground became more treacherous underfoot with every step, uneven and rutted, the mud slick and heavy, clinging to his boots, slowing him down. Half the time he was practically crawling. He wished for gloves, but they would have been shredded in short order by the shrapnel and wire buried in the mud. Nonetheless, he was almost grateful for the near complete darkness that stopped him from seeing anything much. Feeling it was bad enough.

Something rattled.

He dropped to the ground and froze.

Nothing happened. He shifted his weight and crawled forwards. It wasn't the first time he'd tried to cross No Man's Land. Hopefully this time he wouldn't find himself in a foxhole under bombardment. He slid headfirst into a hole in the mud, and spat out a mouthful before thinking about it. How far had he come anyway?

"Wer ist da?"

Not far enough.

He kept on, head down, slipping painfully on cut hands and knees. "This is no life for an aviator," he muttered under his breath. And later, "Algy's going to be in a right state by the time I get through." Never mind that Algy had seen him escape seemingly certain death a dozen times already in the last year. Year? Two years? It felt like forever. _Half a league, half a league, half a league onwards..._

No hundreds here. Or if they were -- he bit back a yelp as one leg sank thigh deep, muscles protesting as he regained his footing. If they were here, they were all dead.

He looked up. Surely he'd made it somewhere? The Line couldn't be far?

The moon had set. He had no idea when it had risen, but it had to have been a couple of hours. The clouds didn't help, no stars to navigate by, and he started to wonder if he'd mistaken his direction, was heading back the very way he'd come.

No. No. He stumbled and skidded down an embankment, and groaned as he hit at the bottom. The trench was abandoned, and the ramparts were behind him. It had to be an abandoned British trench. He wiped at his face with one filthy cuff, and straightened up. Maybe he could follow it home.

Something ran over his feet and he yelled. Rats. Where there were rats, there was food, he reasoned, and then shuddered. Or they were just feasting on the-- He stopped the thought. The smell here was indescribable. The rank rot of mud and dead vegetation combined with gunpowder and death in close quarters tore at the back of his throat and he swallowed two or three times before his empty stomach gave up trying to turn itself inside out. He breathed shallowly until it receded and he could ignore it once more.

Follow the trench and hope for the best, or climb out and keep on that straight line. He was far enough over that re-capture seemed unlikely. Getting blown up by an unexpended shell was more of a danger.

Maybe he should have stayed over on the Hun side, food or no food, at least he wouldn't have been slogging through this stinking mud-filled hell.

They would probably have got him home in time for Christmas. The War Office would bring them all home before Christmas.

Cold and wet, slush and snow. The biggest goose you'd ever seen and all the trimmings. Maybe he could take Algy up to Dickpa, and they could explore the estate. He groaned, thinking of the spread his uncle had put on the last time he'd been there, still a schoolboy, all of two years ago. Fresh bread and jam. Strong hot tea and cakes with cream, pies filled with meat and gravy and -- this wasn't helping.

Up and over then. A last dash. He'd go back and get his squadron, and get out of this muck, flying high above it. He'd miss Algy until they could wangle him a transfer. Major at nineteen, Charles hadn't done as well. They could all meet up where they'd played as schoolboys. He smiled.

Maybe he and Algy could get a transfer out to another field of operation. Somewhere warmer, with less mud. No sand either. Australia or South America. Hell, maybe he should get out while the going was good. Peacetime. Would they even need him and his promised Snipes? Everything would be different. "They'll still need pilots," he muttered, and threw himself backwards as a bayonet shoved at his throat.

"Who the bloody blazes are you?"

Biggles closed his eyes briefly in sheer relief, and grinned at the Tommy. "Major Bigglesworth of 319. I'm a bit late getting home, if someone wouldn't mind?"

* * *

When he got back to Maranique and the familiar huts of 266 he was exhausted. He'd refused the change of clothing they'd offered, taking only a cup of thick black tea and the offer of a lift back with the field ambulance. "Maybe the last trip," the driver had said cheerfully before bouncing them over the wretchedly bad roads to Maranique.

The driver dropped him a couple of miles from the aerodrome, peeling off towards the coast. The sun was rising by the time he'd trudged the rest of the way home.

The place was dead quiet, not a soul moving. He stuck a head in the mess and grinned. The lads had certainly celebrated the cessation of hostilities with a vim. A couple of the younger officers were snoring happily, propped up on each other on the floor, having apparently given up on actually sitting in the nearby chairs at some point in the previous evening. He didn't see Algy there or Major Mullen, and headed for his own quarters.

His things hadn't been packed up, which suggested they'd either been hoping he'd be back, or got too drunk too early to do anything about it. He'd half expected to find Algy there, but no, his quarters were empty when he got there. A thorough scrub turned into a swift dousing with freezing cold water. Much of the mud had dried out on the way back and brushed off and the rest ... well he wasn't clean, but he was a damn sight cleaner. He shaved carefully, and put on a clean uniform, and bundled the old one under his cot. His batman could take care of it.

Sounds from the mess hall made him look up, and he ambled over, smelling bacon.

A shout made him turn just in time to nearly get run down by his cousin.

"Biggles!" Algy hugged him and then backed off hastily, a huge grin on his face, "What the hell kept you, you swine?"

Biggles laughed. "You know me, making new friends everywhere I go. Took tea with the Kaiser, and then popped back over for brekker. I hope I'm in time for brekker?"

People were emerging from the huts in ones and twos, a growing rumble of cheerful insults and grumbled complaints about loud noises.

"You boys been making merry without me?" Biggles said brightly, then yelled across the field, "Hi! Mahoney! You look sick as a dog!"

Everyone winced at his shout, and he grinned wider. "Hope you boys saved me a glass."

Algy looked at him, his pleasant features twisting into a scowl. "We had the last glass for you, you filthy, rotten, miserable--" He shoved at Biggles with each insult, shoving him backwards to the mess.

"Hi, is that any way to address a superior officer?"

"I'll gladly help Lacey out," Major Mullen said dryly, coming up behind them. "You have the damnedest luck, Biggles." He held out a hand, and they shook.

"Reporting for duty, sir." He saluted, and Mullen returned it.

"Glad to see it, but just the same, you're not much good to me any more, you know."

"Am I going to make it back in time for my Snipes, is what I want to know."

Mullen smiled and glanced down at the orders in his hand. "Don't you worry about your Snipes. I think we'll all be home soon enough."

"By Christmas, sir?" MacLaren asked hopefully, and Mullen smiled.

"With luck, boys. With luck."

* * *

Pages last updated 23:12 27/12/2007.

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